Mack Reynolds: Border, Breed Nor Birth

Elmer Allen growled, “You came to Africa to help your race develop its continent. To conquer such problems as sufficient food, clothing and shelter for all. To bring education and decent medical care to a people who have had possibly the lowest living standards anywhere. Can you see any way of achieving this beyond the El Hassan movement?”

Cliff looked at him, still scowling stubbornly. “That’s not why I came to Africa.”

Their eyes were all on him, but they remained silent.

He said, defensively, “I’m no do-gooder. I took a job with the Africa for Africans Association because it was the best job I could find.”

Isobel broke the silence by saying softly, “I doubt it, Cliff.”

The big man stood up from where he’d been seated on the bed. “O.K., O.K. Possibly there were other angles. I wanted to travel. Wanted to see Africa. Besides, it was good background for some future job. I figured it wouldn’t hurt me any, in later years, applying for some future job. Maybe with some Negro concern in the States. I’d be able to say I’d put in a few years in Africa. Something like a Jew in New York who was a veteran of the Israel-Arab wars, before the debacle.”

They still looked at him, none of them accusingly.

He was irritated as he paced. “Don’t you see? Everybody doesn’t have this dream that Homer’s always talking about. That doesn’t mean I’m abnormal. I just don’t have the interest you do. All I want is a good job, some money in the bank, security back in the States. I’m not interested in dashing all over the globe, getting shot at, dying for some ideal.”

Homer said gently, “It’s up to you, Cliff. Nobody’s twisting your arm.”

There was sweat on the big man’s forehead. “All I came to Africa for was the job, the money I got out of it,” he repeated, insisting.

To Homer Crawford suddenly came the realization that the other needed an out, an excuse, an explanation to himself for doing something he wanted to do but wouldn’t admit because it went against the opportunistic code he told himself he followed.

Homer said, “All right. How much are you making as a field worker for the Africa for Africans Association?”

Cliff looked at him, uncomprehending. “Eight thousand dollars, plus expenses.”

“O.K., we’ll double that. Sixteen thousand to begin with, as El Hassan’s Minister of Treasury and whatever other duties we can think of to hang on you.”

There was a long moment of silence, unbroken by any of the others. Finally in a gesture of desperation, Cliff Jackson waved at the money and checks sitting on the center table. “Sixteen thousand a year! The whole organization doesn’t have enough to pay me six months’ salary.”

Homer said mildly, “That’s why your pay was doubled. You have to take risks to make money in this world, Cliff. If El Hassan does come to power, undoubtedly you’ll get other raises—along with greater responsibility.”

He looked into Cliff Jackson’s face, and although his words had dealt with money, a man’s dream looked out from his eyes. And the force of personality that could emanate from Homer Crawford, possibly unbeknownst to himself, flooded over the huge Californian. The others in the room could feel it. Elmer Allen cleared his throat; Isobel held her elbows to her sides, in a feminine protest against naked male psychic strength.

Kenny Ballalou said without inflection, “Put up or shut up, Cliff old pal.”

Cliff Jackson sank back onto the spot on the bed he’d occupied before. “I’m in,” he muttered, so softly as hardly to be heard.

“None of you are in,” a voice from the doorway said.

The figure that stood there held a thin but heavy-calibered automatic in his hand.

He was a dapper man, neat, trim, smart. His clothes were those of Greater Washington, rather than Dakar and West Africa. His facial expression seemed overly alert, overly bright, and his features were more Caucasian than Negroid.

He said, “I believe you all know me. Fredric Ostrander.”

“Of the Central Intelligence Agency,” Homer Crawford said dryly. He as well as Bey, Elmer and Kenny had risen to their feet when the newcomer entered from the smaller of the hut’s two rooms. “What’s the gun for, Ostrander?”

“You’re under arrest,” the C.I.A. man said evenly.

Elmer Allen snorted. “Under whose authority are you working? As a Jamaican, I’m a citizen of the West Indies and a subject of Her Majesty.”

“We’ll figure that out later,” Ostrander rapped. “I’m sure the appropriate Commonwealth authorities will cooperate with the State Department and the Reunited Nations in this matter.” The gun unwaveringly went from one of them to the other, then retraced itself.

Bey looked at Homer Crawford.

Crawford shook his head gently.

He said to the newcomer, “The question still stands, Ostrander. Under whose authority are you operating? I don’t think you have jurisdiction over us. We’re in Africa, not in the United States of the Americas.”

Ostrander said tightly, “Right now I’m operating under the authority of this weapon in my hand, Dr. Crawford. Do you realize that all of you Americans here are risking your citizenship?”

Kenny Ballalou said, “Oh? Tell us more, Mr. State Department man.”

“You’re serving in the armed forces of a foreign power.”

Even the dour Elmer Allen laughed at that one.

Crawford said, “The fact of the matter is, we are the foreign power.”

“You’re not amusing, Dr. Crawford,” Ostrander said. “I’ve kept up with this situation since you had that conference in Timbuktu. The State Department has no intention of allowing some opportunist, backed by known communists and fellow travelers, to seize power in this portion of the world. In a matter of months the Soviets would be in here.”

Isobel said evenly, “I was formerly a member of the Party. I no longer am. I am an active opponent of the Soviet Complex at the moment, especially in regard to its activity in Africa.”

Ostrander snorted his disbelief.

Elmer Allen said, “You chaps never forget, do you?” He looked at the others and explained. “Back during college days, I signed a few peace petitions, that sort of thing. Ever since, every time I come in contact with these people, you’d think I was Lenin or Trotsky.”

Homer Crawford said, “My opinion is, Ostrander, that you’ve had to move too quickly to check back with your superiors. Has the State Department actually instructed you to arrest me and my companions here on foreign soil, without a warrant?”

Ostrander clipped, “That’s my responsibility. I’m taking you all in. We’ll solve such problems as jurisdiction and warrants when I get you to the Reunited Nations headquarters.”

“Ah?” Homer Crawford said. “And then what happens to us?”

Ostrander jiggled the gun impatiently. “Sven Zetterberg is of the opinion that you should immediately be flown out of Africa and the case be brought before the High Council of the African Development Project. What measures will be taken beyond that point I have no way of knowing.”

Bey took a step to the left, Kenny Ballalou one to the right. Homer Crawford remained immediately before the C.I.A. operative, his hands slightly out from his sides, palms slightly forward.

Ostrander snapped, “I’m prepared to fire, you men. I don’t underestimate the importance of this situation. If your crazy scheme makes any progress at all, it might well result in the death of thousands. I know your background, Crawford. You once taught judo in the Marines. I’m not unfamiliar with the art myself.”

Isobel had a hand to her mouth, her eyes were wide. “Boys, don’t…” she began.